The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [161]
“It’s a thin argument,” Ashi said. “It’s all suspicion.”
“But Haruuc needs to know. Haruuc or someone who can be trusted.”
“What about Tariic?” asked Geth. “If Daavn was using him for information, he should know.”
Vounn shook her head. “You haven’t been paying attention in court.” She looked around, then nodded toward the crest of the bridge.
Tariic stood with Daavn, laughing heartily.
“Tariic’s been making allies among the warlords,” Vounn said. “He’s expecting Haruuc to name him as his heir. Since the last assembly of warlords, Daavn has become one of his closest friends. They’re not often apart.” She turned back to Geth. “I don’t think he’d believe me. You have to tell Haruuc. Daavn needs to be investigated.”
“I—” Geth stared at her, then shook his head. “No. I can’t.”
“Geth!” Vounn hissed. “This is serious! If I’m right, Daavn is a threat.”
“And if I tell Haruuc your suspicions, what do you think he’ll do? He’ll send Dagii after the Marhaan and the warriors of another clan will hang on the grieving trees.”
Ashi’s eyes opened wide. “Blood in your mouth! He wouldn’t do that.”
“Right now, I think he would.”
Somewhere in the distance, a horn wailed, rising and falling in the dusk like the scream of a hunting cat. A murmur ran through the gathered warlords, and they all turned to look along the road to the north.
“That’s the signal from Dagii,” said Geth. “He’s close. I have to go.” He pulled Vounn’s hand from his. “I’ll tell Munta. He’ll know what to do.” He looked at Ashi. “If you’re staying in Rhukaan Draal until after the games, we’ll be able to talk on the road.”
“You’re leaving?”
Geth nodded, then turned and pushed his way back to where Haruuc stood, now at the front of the crowd. The lhesh barely gave him a glance as he took up his position at his shoulder.
The column of Dagii’s soldiers was still just a cloud of dust on the other side of a hill in the road, but Geth could already hear the rattle of arm and treading of feet. There was another sound, too— the screaming and crying of dozens of voices. “What’s that?” he asked Haruuc.
“The women and children of what was once Gan’duur,” said the lhesh. “The Bloody Market will be busy tomorrow.”
“You’re selling them as slaves? Haruuc—”
Haruuc looked over his shoulder, his ears back against his head. “They are alive. Will you complain about that?”
Geth closed his mouth.
There was movement at the top of the hill. Not the soldiers, but a cart drawn by a pair of muscular tribex. Sound on the bridge died. Three hobgoblins crouched in the cart. Two more hobgoblins in dirty and bloodstained tunics rode on the tribex, guiding them with switches. Near the foot of the bridge, the last pair of grieving trees waited, naked as if winter had come early. Sap still oozed from the cut wood. The carters stopped their team between the two trees and swung to the ground. One took a stout ladder from the side of the cart and set it against a tree, while the other, moving with a slight limp, went to the back of the cart and hauled out one of the prisoners. It seemed as if the man was too weak to walk on his own. The carter slung him over his shoulder and mounted the ladder as the other held it steady. With a groan that was audible from the bridge, he pushed the prisoner into the branches of the tree.
His groan was met with a cheer from among the warlords, a cheer repeated as the carter produced rope and lashed the prisoner into place. On the far bank of the Ghaal, the people of the city must have realized something was happening. They began to cheer as well.
Blood stained the trunk of the grieving tree in a long, curling thread. “Maabet,” someone roared. “He’s bleeding, he’ll die too fast—don’t you know